


A Ghost of His Former Self

by Corypuffs



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Exile, Gen, Ghost TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost! Tommyinnit, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Toby Smith | Tubbo, Platonic Relationships, Sad Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, This is not Happy, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit Friendship, Tommy dies y'all, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Misses Toby Smith | Tubbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corypuffs/pseuds/Corypuffs
Summary: Tommy doesn't handle exile well, and when the pain becomes too overwhelming he thinks that maybe he'd be happier as a ghost. It seemed that Wilbur was happier that way.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 60
Kudos: 1820





	1. The Hero Goes Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a happy story and if you suffer from any thoughts of suicide please don't read this. I'm suffering from Tommyinnit angst brain rot after that last stream so I had to write something for it.

The first time the lava seemed to call to Tommy he had been waiting for his brother and the others to come back from visiting L’Manberg, his home. Or...his old home.

He sighed and watched the swirling shades of purple fluttering around and twirling together in the Nether portal.

It would be so so easy to just step through, to feel the calming pull of the portal and to finally let him see home again.

But he couldn’t. 

It would be simple to step through but he knew that as soon as that fucking green bastard saw him he’d be dead. He’d stab him through the heart or maybe drown him slowly so he could torment him just a little bit longer before he finally got to see the lights leave the teen’s eyes. 

This was torture. It wasn’t enough that he could never go home; Dream made sure that he was constantly being tormented by hope. Everytime Tommy and Ghostbur obtained anything valuable from their own hard work Dream would snatch it away and force Tommy to watch as it burned. The rancid smell of smoke and ash would stick with Tommy far after Dream had left; he’d let himself collapse to his knees and stare weakly at the irreversibly damaged items. Staring at the singed grass he felt empty; there was no point in moving forward if every time he accomplished anything Dream immediately pushed him back to the start.

So when he was left to sit by the Nether portal, the purple swirls reminding him of chirp, of the astronaut, he felt completely numb. 

He was alone; he had his brother, or the shell of his brother, but even he was allowed to leave. His brother who had destroyed their home and manipulated Tommy was allowed to go home when he couldn’t.

He let an angered snarl escape his mouth as he clenched his fists and slammed them into the side of the portal. He kept hitting and scrapping and punching at the blackened stone until his knuckles were ruined and bloody and when he couldn’t any longer he collapsed down onto the ground and sobbed.

Tommy hadn’t cried since he had been exiled, anger and sorrow boiled inside him every waking moment yet he had kept it locked inside. Not any more though. He let all the heavy emotions out and let the ugly tears and curses escape.

The blood from his knuckles smeared against his jacket, Wilbur’s old jacket, but it just made him feel even more numb.

He wrapped his arms around himself and sobbed; the tears blocked his vision leaving all he could see as the red glow from the lava below and the purple light from the portal.

The lava seemed so calming. He pulled himself over to the edge and gazed down into the lava; the comforting warmth radiating off of the liquid fire felt inviting. Tommy let himself slide closer to the edge, in the back of his mind he acknowledged that this was bad that he should stop, but he hadn’t felt this warm in so long.

He pushed himself closer; he felt one hand slip but before he could fall down into the inviting comfort of the lava a rough hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him up like a dog with a puppy.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing Tommy?”

It was Dream (who else would it be no one else ever visited Tommy thought bitterly).

Tommy just turned his gaze towards Dream silently and glared. The redness and swollen puffy skin around his eyes tensed up and burned at the expression but Tommy couldn’t care less.

He spat at Dream’s shoes and the ground below them sizzled as the spit evaporated. 

Dream stiffened above him before aggressively shoving him down to the floor; Tommy yelped as he felt the rough stone below him pull at his dirty skin.

“It’s not your time to die yet,” Dream scolded; he kicked Tommy away from the edge and watched as the boy coughed up blood onto the floor.

Tommy slowly pushed himself onto his knees and wiped the blood off of his face. His knees shook with hunger and anger as his eyes met the older man’s. 

“It’s never my time,” he laughed weakly.

When they arrived back at Logsteadshire Ghostbur had been extremely concerned, arguing that Tommy needs to take better care of himself and that he should be more careful.

They sat next to the log in their little room as Ghostbur carefully wrapped bandages around his living brother’s wounds.

“You know I brought something for you...from L’Manberg,” Wilbur said slowly before pulling out a small photograph form his pocket, “it’s the Christmas tree.”

Tommy took the picture in his hand and stared blankly at it. The bright colors and joyful nature of its subject just rubbed salt into his already bloody wounds, but Ghostbur was waiting expectantly for a response.

Tommy looked up to his brother’s concerned eyes and gave him a small smile.

“It’s great Ghostbur…Thank you.”

  
  


As night fell upon Logsteadshire Tommy laid sleepless in his makeshift bed. His eyes were glued to the photograph of his old home, and he felt his eyes well up with unshed tears.

He missed home; he missed his friends; he missed the life he once had.

He wondered if anyone missed him too.

His body shook with sobs as he held the image close it crinkled and ripped under his bandages fingers but he didn’t even care.

Tommy wanted to go home so badly.

He wanted to see Tubbo and sit on the bench and listen to their disks. He wanted to play dumb games with Ranboo and give him tours around his home. He wanted to visit Niki's bakery and joke with her about his newest awful book. He wanted to help Puffy decorate L'Manberg (his home) for Christmas. He wanted to see his dad again and be held in his arms so he could imagine the times when he was a carefree child and not a soldier.

He just didn't want to feel so fucking alone.

When his eyes finally fell shut all he could imagine was the red warmth of the lava pulling him in with its comforting embrace. He could perfectly imagine how it would warm up his cold heart and erase all troubles from his mind, it reminded him of home.

As thoughts of comfort swarmed his beaten down mind Tommy made his final decision. He carefully stepped out of his cot and laid out the rest of his few possessions on the plain sheets. It wasn't much but he thought maybe Ghostbur would appreciate them. The only item he kept by his side was the small enchanted compass with the sickening engraving his fingers had memorized after running over it for hours. 

His gaze caught on Wilbur's old torn up jacket tossed haphazardly on the ground and without a thought Tommy wrapped it around himself. Deep under the smell of blood and gunpowder and death and manipulation there was still some of the comfort of his former brother. 

  
With one last look around the makeshift tent Tommy stepped out into the cold air. He didn't know where Ghostbur went at night, he didn't sleep after all, so he made sure to be cautious as he left.

As his feet carried him trance-like to the Nether portal Tommy let his mind wander through the past, back to all the happy times with him and his family and Tubbo.

When he finally felt the warmth rising up from the lava below him he pulled himself out from his memories. His thumb which had been running up and down the engraving on the back of the small compass cam to a halt.

The orange and red ocean swirling listlessly underneath him was calling to his saddened mind.

He could see his friends again if he jumped.

Maybe he’d get to be a ghost like Ghostbur and he wouldn’t remember any of his time in exile. Then he could see his family and friends without it being tarnished by the awful memories of war. He thinks he would like that.

Maybe even Tubbo would forgive him and he could talk to him again just like they used to.

Maybe he’d get to be happy.

Tommy took a deep breath as he lined his ruined shoes up with the edge of the walkway. He thought of the astronaut woman and home and the comforting warmth as he took his final step. 

As the air screamed past his ears he felt nothing but joy; finally his time in exile was over. He was going home.

  
  



	2. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy visits home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brain is stuck on Tommy angst so I had to get it out of my system. Sorry if there are any glaring mistakes, I edited this in my car so it might be rough.

The first person to see Tommy’s ghost had been Dream. He was just going to go check on Tommy, to make sure the boy wasn’t causing any trouble (or hiding anything valuable) when he saw a translucent form resting against the Nether portal.

“Ghostbur,” Dream greeted but as soon as the form turned to look at him his heart filled with dread.

The ghost was much smaller than the one usually seen roaming around L’Manberg. He had wide dull eyes and faded blonde hair. 

It wasn’t Ghostbur.

Dream’s eyes widened as he fearfully stepped back towards the portal, “Tommy?”

The boy just looked at him confused and nodded. He was floating a couple inches off the ground and Dream noticed with a start that he looked the same as he did when he first moved into SMP lands. 

He was so much younger and was still wearing his signature red and white shirt.

“Yeah, who are you?”

Dream’s breath caught in his chest as guilt started to build up inside him. He had wanted him to suffer right? But as he stared at the young boy, now dead, Dream felt bile rising in his throat.

He didn’t stay in the Nether for long. 

He exited back through the portal to escape the awful feelings the small ghost was causing to rise inside of him, and as he made his way back to the overworld he let his knees collapse against the ground. He could see the red and blue lights of L’Manberg from there, but it made him feel sick. 

How had he died? Why didn’t Ghostbur stop him? 

Why didn’t Dream stop him? 

The small ghost just watched the stranger run away from him in confusion. He felt like he had met the masked man somewhere before but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

Maybe he’d come back later, and he could ask him about it.

  
  


The next person to find Tommy was Quackity, the new Vice President of L’Manberg and Tommy’s successor after his exile. 

Quackity had been working on fixing damaged areas of the path leading into L’Manberg. Now that the walls were finally gone their country was getting more and more visitors, so Tubbo and him had agreed that the path needed to be cleaned up. He wiped the sweat off of his face and stretched his arms over his head when he saw a small glimpse of grey and red out of the corner of his eye. It was near the L’Mantree.

He cautiously walked over to the tall oak tree and gazed around to where he thought he saw the figure before. His fingers danced over the sword attached to his belt, ready to draw at the sight of danger.

“Hello?” Quackity called out, “Anyone there?”

He stared at the tree for a couple seconds longer before a small figure came into sight.

It was transparent and gray, similar to Ghostbur but significantly smaller. 

The pale figure looked up at Quackity and as soon as their eyes met he felt sick to his stomach.

“T-Tommy?” Quackity hesitated, “You’re...uh you’re not supposed to be here ha…”

The ghostly boy looked at him in confusion before approaching. He was much younger looking than the Tommy Quackity remembered.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

Quackity froze in place, even the voice was the same. He backed away from the ghost as his breath started to speed up.

“You...you...what happened?” Quackity whispered.

Tommy just shrugged nonchalantly, “I don’t really remember.”

Quackity let out a shaky breath at the boy’s seemingly relaxed attitude. How could this have happened, Dream had been telling them he had checked up on Tommy and that he was fine. But this didn’t seem fine. 

The boy tilted his head in confusion, “Did I know you?”

Quackity gazed at the ghost remorsefully and gave him a slow nod.

“Well...Nice to meet you again,” the ghost said with a kind smile before vanishing into the air, leaving Quackity stunned and alone next to the L’Mantree.

He had to tell Tubbo.

  
  


Quackity ran back through L’Manberg his feet tripping over steps as he tried to get to Tubbo’s house as quickly as he could. His breath hitched with every step and he swore that he kept seeing a translucent figure out of the corner of his eye. When he reached Tubbo’s door though he paused.

How the hell was he going to tell the President about Tommy’s...situation.

He stood still in front of the sleek wooden door for a while before he had collected his thoughts enough to knock. He heard a shout from inside and the shuffling of chairs before the door swung open; the President of L’Manberg gazed at Quackity with tired eyes and a suit a size too big for him.

“Oh, what’s up Quackity?” Tubbo asked.

Quackity felt his mouth go dry; the internal script he had made for this suddenly vanished from his mind. He stared at Tubbo with his mouth wavering as he tried to find any words to break the news.

“Do...do you wanna come in man?” Tubbo asked with concern painted on his face. The boy president looked so tired but even then he still cared about his people; it would be admirable in any other situation. But the news Quackity bore would only tear Tubbo down. He knew his friend had been trying to stay strong in the midst of the exile, but it had taken a noticeable toll on his mental state. 

At night he could hear the President’s broken sobs when he passed by the house, and he knew that the redness in his eyes the next day was probably related to the glimmering compass he always had grasped in his hand.

“Yeah I’ll come in.”

They sat down together at the small wooden table Phil had helped Tubbo make. Papers and pens were strewn across the surface.

“What is it Quackity? Is it about the path?” Tubbo asked with a yawn.

Quackity stared down at the table; he traced his finger over the patterns in the wood, swooping and swirling and calm. 

“Um no... it’s uh. It’s about Tommy,” he let out.

He wasn’t looking at Tubbo but he could still see the boy stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

Tubbo swallowed audibly, “What about Tommy?”

Quackity brought his wandering hand to a stop to think about how to approach the topic at hand. He kept opening his mouth like a fish out of water, but any words were strangled in his throat before they could escape. 

“I-um...Tommy,” Quackity felt his heart thumping in his chest as wide brown eyes stared at him stumbling over his words.

“You okay Big Q?” Tubbo asked with his head tilted to the side.

The poor kid had no idea how badly Quackity wanted to just pick himself up and leave and let Tubbo find out on his own. But he was a kid, he was just a fucking kid, and Quackity knew he had to be there to help him handle this.

Quackity nodded slowly and took a deep breath to calm his thoughts.

“Tommy’s dead Tubbo.”

The tension in the air became palpable; it strangled Quackity and tugged at his heart until he felt like he would pass out. Meanwhile, Tubbo just sat there still like he had suddenly turned into stone, unable to move.

“What?” Tubbo whispered, if the room hadn’t been dead silent Quackity didn’t think he’d have even heard the poor kid.

“I...I saw him,” Quackity paused to breath, “He was like Wilbur.”

Tubbo sat there in silence staring down at his hands; Quackity watched hopefully for any response from the boy but there was nothing. No tears, no screams, no laughter. There was nothing. 

He was prepared to help but he didn’t know how to help with nothing.

Quackity let the boy process his thoughts in silence as he observed his tired appearance. His suit was wrinkled and dirty in places and his hair was wild. The only clean thing about him was the small shimmery compass sticking out of his coat pocket.

Tubbo noticed his Vice President’s gaze and let his eyes wander to the piece of metal. His hand ghosted over the compass and traced along the engraving, “Your Tommy.”

The compass must have been the breaking point.

  
  


Once the tears started Tubbo wasn’t sure they’d ever stop. One by one they fell over the compass he held close to his heart as if he could somehow give his own life to Tommy through the blasted instrument. He felt hands on his shoulders and arms around him but he couldn’t care less.

It didn’t matter if it wasn’t Tommy.

Eventually the hands disappeared and Tubbo was left with only the sounds of his own sobs echoing off the walls.

He pressed the engraving against his lips and felt the words dance and burn across his skin.

“Tommy,” he cried over and over again until his words slurred together and breathing became a challenge. He didn’t leave his house the rest of the day, he sat in the rickety chair sobbing until tears wouldn’t come anymore and his head throbbed in agony. When Quackity came back to check on him he had fallen asleep across the table, the papers around him were covered in tear stains and the small metal compass was pressed close to his chest.

  
  


One by one, the rest of L’Manberg met the ghost of the former vice president. Tommy wasn’t as frequent a visitor as Wilbur’s spirit and he was much less boisterous than the yellow-clad ghost, but he still showed up every few days. Sometimes he’d arrive with Ghostbur tugging at his hand as he hid away from the citizens of L’Manberg while other times he’d happily talk with some of the people he did remember.

His memory was much worse than Ghostbur’s though. He barely remembered anyone except for the Enderman-hybrid and the baker. But even then he didn’t remember their names, just small pleasant interactions with them.

Everyone else was a complete blank in Tommy’s mind.

This is what Ghostbur had tried to explain to his father who had broken into hysterical tears when he found out about his youngest son’s death. He demanded to see the spirit of his boy, but Wilbur warned against it.

“Phil he...he doesn’t remember much at all,” Ghostbur explained, “Maybe...maybe take some blue. If you really want to speak with him.

Phil had nodded thankfully at his son but his expression stayed grim. He pocketed some of the blue in his coat before leaving his house to search for the other spirit.

“Thank you Wilbur.”

Even with the warning though the interaction didn’t end well.

Tommy had almost no memory of Phil who pleaded with his son to try to remember anything at all. But there was nothing. 

Tommy just stared uncomfortably at the distraught stranger who made him feel a sense of guilt over something he didn’t really understand. 

“I...I’m sorry,” Tommy whispered, “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

And then he had vanished again, leaving his father struggling to hold in tears in the middle of the square. Tommy didn’t show up again for almost a week after the encounter.

  
  
  


The days after learning of his best friend’s (if he could call him that anymore) death Tubbo had taken to visiting the bench every night. He’d sit against the splintery wood and close his eyes and just pretend that everything was back to normal and Tommy was sitting next to him as music played behind them.

But there was no music. 

And there was no Tommy.

So Tubbo sat in silence from nightfall until the sun started to rise over the hills far past L’Manberg. Sometimes he’d sit and weep until he passed out on the bench and someone would come pull a blanket over the poor boy sometime during the night. Other times he just sat and thought about what he had done and tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault. 

Though he really felt like it was sometimes.

It was exactly a week after Tommy’s death that Tubbo was given a small circular gift wrapped with paper. Dream said it was just an early Christmas gift, but Tubbo wasn’t dumb.

He knew how guilty Dream felt about Tommy’s death; being given one of his old friend’s discs wasn’t surprising (though he didn’t feel like he deserved to be the one to keep it).

But nevertheless that day when he went to sit at the bench for the night he slowly tore open the paper and stared at the green tinted disc. His breath caught in his throat and he held the disc as if it would crumble with just a touch. 

It felt so so wrong to have it without his friend laughing beside him, but still he steadied himself and slid the disk into the small music box.

For a second silence weighed heavy and the air and he worried that he broke it until vibrant happy notes filled the air.

“What are you doing?”

Tubbo jumped at the familiar voice and for a second he thought that Tommy was there with him but when he turned he met face to face with pale dead skin and dull eyes. 

He hadn’t seen Tommy’s spirit before, but looking at him made him feel cracked and broken like his head was a record stuck on loop, reminding him of the part he played in his friend’s death over and over and over again.

The ghost looked exactly as he did when Tubbo had first met Tommy; the flood of memories of their childhood friendship made Tubbo’s heart ache painfully. But he had to push those aside.

“T-Tommy?” he whispered as the now smaller boy looked intently at the music box.  
  


The ghost nodded with a small smile and sat down on the bench, he sat in the exact same position he always did with his god-awful posture and leg bent up on the seat; it made Tubbo’s heart twist.

“Yeah, what’s your name?”

Tubbo mouth went dry and he stared with wide eyes at the spirit, “I- I’m Tubbo...you don’t-Tommy you don’t remember me?”

The ghost shook his head slowly, “No, I barely remember anything. Yaknow, Wilbur said that something pretty bad happened before I died so all my memories got bad… I guess that’s why I can’t remember. I’m sorry I don’t remember you.”

Tubbo’s mouth drew into a thin line and he nodded slowly at the explanation. As he stared down at his lap he noticed with a start that his hand was passing through Tommy’s as they rested on the bench.

“That’s...that’s alright,” Tubbo muttered, “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not your fault either yaknow.”

Tubbo turned towards the small ghost with wide eyes, “What do you mean?”

The spirit just shrugged, “Everyone I talk to seems to feel so guilty about me or whatever...even Wilbur. But from what I remember I did it to myself...so it’s not anyone else’s fault really.”

Tubbo nodded once and hesitated to ask, “Do you...do you remember how you died?”

Tommy shook his head, “I just remember that it was bright and that it felt nice...I died happy.”

Tubbo nodded once and let his head fall back towards his lap as the music disc came to an end. The ghost got up to restart it and once the gentle rhythm started playing again he turned to the young president.

“Can I ask you something?”

Tubbo frowned slightly but nodded to the other boy.

“Who were you to me? And...what is this place?,” he paused for a second before continuing, “I...this place feels important...but I can’t remember.”

A bittersweet smile forced its way to Tubbo’s face as he thought of how to respond to the spirit.

“I was your best friend,” he said solemnly, “This place, it’s where we used to go together. We’d listen to your discs and talk… It-it was really nice.”

Tommy nodded and smiled at Tubbo kindly though his eyes stayed emotionless and dead, “I’m sure alive me thought it was nice too.”

“I sure hope so… I- god I really miss you Tommy,” Tubbo breathed out heavily. 

Tommy gave him a pitiful look out of the corner of his eye and frowned.

“I’m sorry I’m not your Tommy,” he said quietly.

Tubbo nodded and laughed remorsefully, “It’s okay… you can’t bring him back.”

Tommy shook his head, “No...I can’t.”

“I hope you knew that I loved you though,” Tubbo felt tears start to well up as the ghost sitting next to him stared at him sadly, “I loved you so so fucking much Tommy.”

Tommy pulled Tubbo close to him, but all he could feel was a light cold touch around his skin causing him to sob even harder into the ghost.

“I miss you Tommy. I miss you so much,” he sobbed.

The spirit shushed him gently and tried to reassure the crying boy as much as he could but the tears seemed endless. 

So Tommy let Tubbo stay there, clinging to the ghost of his best friend as he sobbed on the bench that used to be theirs. At some point Tubbo’s tears slowed and he fell asleep to the gentle reassurances of the spirit. Once Tommy heard the soft snores of the boy he left to grab a warm blanket to drape over his curled up body.

“I’m sorry Tubbo,” he whispered gently as he bent down to place a soft kiss to the boy’s hair before disappearing into the night sky.

  
  



	3. Learning to Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Tommy's ghost doesn't appear at the bench one night Tubbo goes to find him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was not planning on adding more to this pic but I kept thinking about it so I wrote more little interaction between the boys. This will be the last chapter though since this was originally going to just be a one shot haha :)

After the night at the bench, Tommy’s spirit loyally came to sit by Tubbo’s side silently each day after sunset. Tubbo would listen to the sleepy sounds of birds and water flowing below the hill as he walked the familiar path. By the time he’d arrive, the grey glittering form of Tommy would already be sitting on the bench with his eyes closed, entranced by the soothing music produced by their jukebox.

Each night they'd sit there together side by side for hours. If Tubbo didn't look hard enough he could almost fool himself into thinking that the boy in the corner of his eye was his best friend and not a hollow shell of who he used to be, but once their conversations started the mirage of friendship vanished and left Tubbo empty in its wakes.

Sometimes they’d discuss what Tommy remembered or just simple life affairs, but usually the two just say in silence with the gentle hum of music filling the cold air.

One night though as Tubbo trudged up the makeshift dirt path that led towards the wooden bench, he was taken back by the lack of Tommy’s familiar presence. 

Tubbo wouldn’t say he enjoyed the ghost’s presence, often all it did was remind him of the friendship he’d lost, but still the disappearance of the ghost was concerning. And having the shell of his closest friend was better than nothing.

“Tommy?” he called out but the only reply was that of a gentle cooing from birds nesting nearby.

His eyes swept over the grassy hill but saw no sign of his old friend. He waited patiently hoping that within seconds the ghostly form would appear to keep him company.

But after several minutes of chirping crickets and no sign of Tommy, Tubbo decided he had to go look for the specter.

His arms wrapped around his center to try to keep himself warm in his thin stiff suit; his comfortable bed at home called to him, but the guilt of leaving Tommy alone was overwhelming.

If he couldn’t be there for him in life, he would make sure to be there for him in death...even if Tommy didn’t have any recollection of their friendship.

“Hmmph,” Tubbo hummed as he blew air into his palms and vigorously rubbed them together searching for the missing ghost. His breath fogged up the air in front of him begging him to just return to his warm home, but he was determined to figure out what had caused the ghost to deviate from their nightly routine.

He marched his way through the deep blanket of snow coating L’Manberg, and after a few minutes of searching a pale figure came into view on top of the Camarvan.

Carefully Tubbo approached but the snow under his feet crunched loudly causing the ghost to shift his head to the young president.

“Oh...hi Tubbo. Sorry, I must be late for the bench huh?” he asked with a small laugh but the humorous grin didn’t reach his pale lifeless eyes. 

Tubbo nodded, “Yeah, you could say that...why are you up there though?”

The ghost shrugged and Tubbo noticed uncomfortably that every few seconds the gentle snowflakes stuck to Tommy’s translucent skin and pulled at it almost like he was melting away. Meanwhile, the spirit didn’t even seem to take notice of his melting skin.

“I remember the Camarvan,” he said abruptly looking back down at Tubbo who was still staring up at him from the snow covered ground.

Tubbo cocked an eye up at the ghost quizzically, “I thought you said you didn’t remember the wars?”

Tommy nodded and let his gaze shift up towards the sky as he slowly floated down to hover next to the young president.

“Yeah I...I don’t or at least not really. I remember bits but nothing big, just small parts of conversations or things but I can’t put any of it together,” he explained solemnly, “But a lot of the stuff I remember involved the van…”

The reminder of Tommy’s memory loss stung at Tubbo’s heart making him aware once more that this figure was not his Tommy...even if he did look like him. No matter how much he would like to believe the small boy sitting on top of the van was his friend he knew the ghost and Tommy couldn’t possibly be more different.

“Yeah, that makes sense; this place was important,” Tubbo agreed, “This is where Wilbur made the declaration...it's what started it all.”

Tubbo turned his head over his shoulder, over his country. The bright soothing lights reflected wonderfully off of the white snow; it all started with Wilbur, with the Camarvan. It gave Tubbo a strange sense of nostalgia even though they were arguably much safer now than they were back then. 

But at least back then he still had Tommy.

“I remember that…” Tommy said as he floated down to stand beside Tubbo, “Wilbur inspired me...he was strong. And I remember feeling like we could do anything with him.”

Tubbo smiled sadly at the ghost and nodded, “Yeah Wilbur was a great leader...he inspired everyone. I mean, ha, he’s the whole reason we’re here in the first place.”

Tommy nodded once but his pale eyes clouded with concern as he turned towards the taller boy.

“What...what happened to Wilbur?” he asked calmly.

Tubbo felt stunned at the question as he gazed into the lifeless eyes of his old friend. Memories of the election and the first exile and reuniting with his friend flashed behind his eyes.

He tugged at his collar uncomfortably and stuttered out, “Well…he got uh exiled with you, or alive-you. And he didn’t handle it well…”

Tommy nodded thoughtfully before blurting out, “How was he exiled though? Didn’t he...wasn’t he the one who started the country?”

Tubbo hummed in affirmation and motioned for Tommy to follow him into the Camarvan. They both sat down on the wooden floor and Tubbo sighed at the comforting warmth.

“Yeah, he did help start it but...there was an election. And he didn’t win,” Tubbo said carefully.

“I was...I was exiled too right?” Tommy questioned.

Tubbo’s heart stuttered as his mind filled with awful memories of both of Tommy’s times in exile. One due to a corrupt president; the other due to himself...and he never did make it out of the second one.

Tubbo gulped and nodded slowly, “Yeah...you were. With Wilbur.”

“But...he didn't handle it well?”

Tubbo nodded once again, staring down at the floor between him and the ghost, “Yeah, he went crazy...Wilbur was his own downfall.”

Tommy opened his mouth to talk but paused, his words catching in his throat.  
  


“That...that doesn’t seem like Ghostbur, like at all,” he pointed out slowly.

Tubbo nodded in response to the ghost’s confusion, “Yeah well...you’re not too much like Tommy either.”

As soon as the words left his mouth he knew he shouldn’t have said them. He wanted to reel them back in like a fish and continue the conversation as if nothing had happened but the stunned expression of the spirit told Tubbo that was no longer an option.

“I...I’m sorry,” the ghost muttered quietly, “I’m sorry I’m not like him.”

Tubbo breathed out heavily and tugged at the sleeves of his coat, “That was- I’m sorry Tommy that was harsh. I shouldn’t have said that it’s not your fault.”

The two sat in an uncomfortable silence as the spirit stared down at the floor. Tubbo watched anxiously for any sign of emotion from the ghost, but as normal his face was blank.

“Tubbo...can I ask you something?”

“Yeah of course Toms,” Tubbo responded, hoping that his tone was comforting to the spirit.

The ghost, for the first time in a while, seemed to look more anxious. His translucent eyebrows scrunched up and his fists clenched repeatedly.

“Can you...can you tell me more about me? Or, who I was I guess…” the spirit’s voice trailed off as he shrunk in on himself.

The poor ghost looked pitiful in a balled up position with his arms wrapped around his legs as he waited for any response from the boy across from him.

However, the president’s mind was tumultuous. The young ghost stared at him hopefully unaware of the war raging within Tubbo. 

All at once memories of Tommy he’d buried in the deepest parts of his mind resurfaced and begged for attention. His smile, his laugh, his awful posture, how he’d defend Tubbo, his confidence… 

Tubbo clenched his jaw hoping that the ghost wouldn’t notice the tear that had slipped down his jaw.

“You are, were uh...you were loud,” Tubbo cringed at his awful start but the spirit didn’t seem to mind; he just sat and watched him with a deep intrigue.

“You were very passionate... when you cared about things everyone knew it,” Tubbo smiled sadly, “You were always bright and funny, you made my days a lot better, and you cared about me… a lot.”

Tubbo paused to look at the spirit who still sat patiently looking at Tubbo with wide sad eyes.

“You were very confident I- I always wanted to have your confidence. And you were a wildcard for sure, but you… you were actually very sweet,” Tubbo felt his mouth turn dry as sand, “You were the best friend I ever had or will have...It didn’t matter what happened you always - you always stayed with me…”

It wasn’t until Tubbo felt a brush of cold air against his face that he realized he had been crying; the ghost tried to comfort the president with a hand rubbing small circles on his cheek but it felt like nothing more than a cool draft. Tubbo lifted a shaky hand to where Tommy’s rested on his cheek and felt a heaving sob escape from his chest when his hand passed right through the other’s.

“I miss y-you,” he hiccuped as he leaned forward against the transparent boy, “You were my best friend Toms.”

The ghost shushed the young president and let him sit beside him; he tried his best to calm the upset boy but every touch seemed to send him into another round of sobs.

“I-I’m sorry,” he cried, “I- you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Tommy shook his head sadly and moved closer to the other boy, “No, it’s okay. I’m...I’m really sorry I can’t help.”

Tubbo looked at the ghost with a sad smile and let his head fall forward; if Tommy had been solid his head would have been resting right upon his shoulder just as they used to whenever Tubbo wanted a hug from his friend. 

“Thank you…” Tubbo whimpered quietly; with one arm he wiped the snot and tears off of his red face onto his suit sleeve. 

Tommy smiled kindly and for a split second Tubbo swore he saw a glimpse of the bright boisterous grin alive-Tommy used to wear.

“Come on Tubbo...lets get you home okay?”


End file.
